


The Prince of Cotton

by lacedoll



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Cheesiness, Cute boys, Fluff, M/M, POV First Person, armin's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacedoll/pseuds/lacedoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s a prince, you see, and I’m just the blonde kid who sits behind him in third hour—or something like that, if you want the dramatics. Sometimes I want to slam him against a wall and kiss him. (based on a text post I made the other day about a high school Eren who only wears hoodies and sweatpants)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prince of Cotton

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! I wrote this for Eremin week, day three: fairytale. Even though it's a fairytale in the loosest of terms, hey, it works (I think). During the process I realized that this isn't how I normally write Armin, and it sort of just came out, so it's a little experimental regarding that. Be warned of extreme cheesiness, dramatic princeliness, and general nonsense. Let me know what you think, and more importantly, let the cute boys commence. All feedback is appreciated. I hope you enjoy it. Happy eremin week!

If you’re looking for my weakness, well, you’re not going to find it. Because it’s nothing to do with Eren Yeager, his bedhead cowlick, tired eyes and dry elbows, how he nods off during English, chin in his palm. And it’s nothing to do with the way he says “milk”, his wobbly legs after one coffee, or when his voice cracks just before he falls asleep. Most importantly, it’s _certainly_ not the way he dresses, the same hoodie in five colors, a drawer of basketball shorts, a collection of t-shirts, not to mention his thing for tennis shoes. Sometimes I want to slam him against a wall and kiss him.

If you’re looking for my weakness, well, it’s better off if you didn’t ask.

He’s a prince, you see, and I’m just the blonde kid who sits behind him in third hour—or something like that, if you want the dramatics. We’re friends, or I go to his house after school to help him study, where we end up watching Youtube videos and eating chocolate cake his mom made the night before. It’s this thing we’ve been doing since high school started. I’m not sure what it means, and it’s not what I’m used to, but I’m okay with it, I think. Because this time last year I would’ve said no politely and walked home alone only to do homework in my room with the TV on mute. But something in me said yes. Say yes to Eren Yeager.

Maybe it’s because no one’s ever looked so good in cotton.

“Armin,” he says, his shoes squeaking against the tile as he turns in his seat to face me. “Wanna partner up?”

“What?” Oh yeah, the project. “Sounds good. You want to work on it after school today?”

“Okay. Let’s go to your house this time, though.”

I feel myself shrink. _No!_ “Sure.”

It’s not exactly fit for Cotton royalty.

“How many of these have you read?” he asks once we enter my room and sit on the bed. He doesn’t mention the mess: the scattered papers, empty mugs, fresh laundry I haven’t finished hanging. _How can he see me like this?_ I panic.

“Uh, not all of them,” I finally say, rushing to place a couple in the empty bookcase slots. “But a good portion.”

“Wow.” He falls to his back, staring at the ceiling and letting his baseball cap fall off. I hope there aren’t any crumbs on the covers. “I wish I had this many books.”

“You can borrow some, if you want,” I offer, tracing the spine of _Oliver Twist_. “Just not the ones on the bottom row. They’re old and kind of fragile.”

“Really? Thanks.” 

May 21st, 2014. It’s a Wednesday. The day I learned that sincerity sounds like Eren Yeager. _Prince_ Eren Yeager. Also, he has dimples. 

We don’t work on the project, but we do kiss a little. I still feel warm.

\----

It is May 28th, 2014. Another Wednesday, but this time is different.

“You forgot the project?”

I can picture it, a classic case of the hump day blues, USB on the kitchen counter next to my thermos and wallet. No project, no coffee, no lunch.

“I swear this never happens,” I whisper hurriedly as some kid boots up a powerpoint about the dangers of canola oil. It’s 9th grade health class, after all.

“Well it’s not the first time for me,” he admits, trying to stifle a laugh. It doesn’t work, and I am glad. Today he’s in Nike’s, gray sweatpants, a shirt with a logo I do not recognize. So princely it hurts.

“What are we going to do?”

He shrugs. “The guy’s a hardass and doesn’t play favorites. I dunno.”

There goes my only chance. We take the zero, no one laughs, and by some miracle I survive. I’m not sure what Grandpa will say, but it’s nothing a little chocolate cake won’t fix later. Eren doesn’t have money either, so at lunch we sit with his friends and they let us have some food. It’s nice, sitting with friends. Why didn’t I do this sooner? Now we sit there every day.

\----

In case you’re wondering, we kiss a lot and play video games (not usually at the same time). Who cares if he doesn’t read Shakespeare? I don‘t, but someone groaned when he couldn’t remember the ending to _Romeo and Juliet._ He knows more about movies than I ever will. Plus he’s really good at names and faces. I don’t know half the kids in our class. Then there’s that smile, and his whole shoe obsession. Oh yeah, about that.

“What _is_ this?” I say, my jaw dropping to the floor, probably. I’m wearing one of his baseball caps and sitting on his floor as he pulls open the closet.

“They’re my shoes.”

“I know, but there’s so many. I knew you liked shoes, but—”

“—Well I knew you liked books, but.”

I roll my eyes and laugh. “Shut up.”

“You can borrow some, if you want,” he says, a very bad imitation of me.

“Who borrows tennis shoes?”

“That reminds me. When are you going to let me borrow some more books?”

“You can’t,” I say. “The last one was bent.”

“That’s what happens with paperbacks, Armin.”

“I know." I’ve never been good at sharing. “I’ll bring you one tomorrow.” Sometimes I wonder why he doesn’t just go to the library, but I’m not going to question it.

\----

I don’t rollerblade! No one seems to understand this. For someone reason they thought it meant invite me to Sasha’s birthday party. It’s at the rink, you see. I don’t rollerblade. Eren played hockey all through elementary. I didn’t. I don’t even own a pair of skates. And since when did we still have parties like this?

“It’s not as hard as ice skating,” he explains for the millionth time. But it doesn’t matter. Skating, blading, they’re all shoes I can’t control and rinks I’ll crack my head on. Connie whirls by and asks us why we haven’t joined them yet. I wonder if I can fake appendicitis.

“What about roller skates?”

“Rollerblades are easier. Come on, you’ll get the hang of it real quick.”

And before I can say another four words, like, hey, my appendix burst, he drags me to the shoe counter, where I overpay for something I am scared of.

“I’ll help you put them on.”

“No,” I say, hands shaking as I pull a strap tight. “Eren, I’ve never done this.”

“Well,” he continues, waving as our friends pass by yet again, “now you‘ll be able to say you have.”

I groan, feeling less like fifteen and more like five.

“It’s weird at first, but I promise you’ll have fun.”

How can he promise that? I wonder. People always say things they cannot prove. But I guess this time I’ll let it slip. He is the Prince of Cotton, and now rollerblading, too.

I watch from the sidelines for a while as he laughs and races around with ease. Everyone can see his dimples. I have to admit, I’m kind of jealous until I remember they saw them first. My heart sinks a little. The music’s too loud, there are many screams and younger children. It’s fourth grade recess all over again. I start to wonder.

“Armin!” he calls, sliding off the rink to meet me, hand outstretched. “Let’s go! Everyone wants you to.”

“No they don’t,” I laugh, but they crowd around at the edge, urging me to join.

“I fall down all the time,” Sasha grins.

And so do I, apparently, because that’s what I spend the next half hour doing. Everyone tells me how to stop, how to balance, how to avoid collisions. I make mental notes but run out of paper. It doesn’t matter, I guess, because he holds my hand and doesn’t laugh when I crash into Bertholdt, who falls into Reiner. Everyone seems to like this.

“See? It’s not so bad,” he says. My hand’s so sweaty it must be gross, but he doesn’t mention it.

I don’t respond, but I smile and nod, because words fail me in that moment.

Later on we go to Sasha’s and spend the night there. His pajamas are his normal clothes, a shirt and shorts. We eat more cake and have a bonfire, where I make the best s’mores and no one agrees because they don’t like burnt marshmallows. Oh well. I talk about our zero in health class. Everyone laughs, and for once, so do I.

\----

 

Why did this happen?

“Armin, I’m sorry,” he says, sighing and covering something red in his hands. It’s a book, a book that is mine and—

“—Eren, what did you do?” I exclaim, throwing our snacks on the bed and plopping beside him at the bookcase.

“I just wanted to look for a minute,” he frantically explains, and keeps explaining, but I can’t hear him, only see the cover half ripped off of what is important.

“This was my mom’s,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “This meant a lot to me.” My mother loved poetry. I never got to hear her read it, but her voice is in this book. “I told you not to touch these.”

“I know,” he says, staring at the carpet. “It was stupid. I’m really sorry, Armin. I feel horrible. Is there anything I can do?”

I snatch the book from his hands. “Just go.”

It doesn’t matter, what he can do. I know people aren’t perfect, and even stupid princes make mistakes, but this is one I thought would never happen. For a split second I think that I should have walked home alone before. I know it’s irrational, but when you’re upset the most ridiculous things make sense.

That night I sleep with the book beside me. Eren texts me, but I don’t answer.

\----

If you think that I ignored him for the rest of the week, well, that’s not what happened. We have a test in science and Eren will fail if I don‘t help him. I don’t want to be here. He's wearing a stupid green hoodie. All I can think of is my book at home under my pillow and what Mom would think if she saw it in such condition. _It wasn’t me_ , I plead over and over. I read the textbook but it doesn’t make sense. We aren’t talking. It’s not that we’re refusing; there’s just nothing to say. He keeps saying sorry, and I keep feeling worse. The air is so thick I’m sure I’ll choke.

“I don’t want us to be like this, Armin.” He places a hand on mine, which is resting on a page about metamorphic rocks. I hate rocks but continue to read.

“I don’t either.” Yup, rocks are very interesting. 

“Armin, come on.” He squeezes. “Maybe I can replace it.”

“I don’t want it replaced. I told you, that was my mom’s book.”

“I know.” His voice trails off. “I just wanna help. I know it was stupid.”

“I don’t understand why you did it,” I hear myself saying, finally looking up.

He shrugs, sucking in his lips. “It’s gonna sound dumb.”

“Just tell me. I want to know.”

He shifts and leans against the bed. “When you talk about those books,” he starts uncertainly, like he's unprepared for a health class presentation, “I know they mean a lot to you. I wanted to know why. I wanted to see.”

“Then why didn’t you just ask? I would have showed you. I’d love to show you.”

“ I was scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Of what you might think, I guess.”

“I’d think that I could spend hours talking about it all,” I almost laugh, but stop myself.

He sighs. “I was worried you wouldn’t want to show me.”

“Why wouldn‘t I?” It is the first time these words have made it out my mouth alive. “I do, Eren. I do want to show you. I’ll show you all of them, if you want. Every one.”

“Really?” He looks like he’s just won another closet full of shoes.

“Of course.” I rub my eyes, yawning, lean against the bed with him. “To be completely honest, that book was so fragile you could poke it and it would fall apart. I knew it would happen eventually. I just wanted to keep it safe for as long as I could.”

“Sorry, Armin. I won’t touch your books anymore.”

“Don’t say that. We’ll go through them together.”

We spend the next three days reading poems, stories, and all else that we find on the bottom shelf. Eren's just as thrilled as I am, especially when we find a bookmark with my mother’s handwriting. I even show him the sonnet I wrote last year for class. I promised to read it if he promised not to laugh, but even when he does, I don’t care. I’m not embarrassed anymore. Did you know? There is home in two bodies and their voices.

We fall asleep watching _Coolhand Luke_. It’s a classic, he says. I don’t know if he’s a prince, but he sure looks it when he smiles. 

\----

The doorbell rings. I am not ready. 

Undoing my tie for the tenth time that day, I huff in the mirror, all too aware that we’ll be late if I do not hurry. But my tie isn’t straight, my hair is poofy, my face is red, and there is not enough air. This isn’t a date, I keep telling myself; this is a sports banquet. So why do I feel so nervous?

The doorbell rings again. I am still not ready. I think about ducking under my covers and never coming out.

“Armin, Eren is here!” I hear Grandpa call from the foyer, but before I can reply I hear excited footsteps. Footsteps that could only belong to one person.

“Don’t come in!” I warn, slamming my door and leaning against it. Of course, he pushes through anyway.

Have you ever been struck by something you can’t explain? Sometimes it’s a blue sky, and sometimes it’s a childhood toy you thought was thrown away, and sometimes it’s Eren Yeager in a suit.

Well, it’s not a suit, but it's close enough. I’ve never seen you like this, Eren. Crisp button up, sleek tie, shiny shoes, fitted pants. No hoodie, no sneakers, no cotton t-shirt. It is so much I have to blink a few times to understand.

“You’re wearing _that?_ ” I jab, yanking his tie.

He is not Prince Yeager, the Prince of Cotton, the prince of anything. Actually, he is Eren. He is Eren, and he does things to me. Things just the way he is.

He stumbles forward. And he smiles so brightly there must be a sun inside him.


End file.
